


Meatbun’s Big Gay Crisis of March 2019

by rynleaf



Category: Literary RPF
Genre: Convenience Store Nightshift Clerk Meatbun, Crack, Cunnilingus, F/F, Hot Academic Priest, Humor, Identity Reveal, Pining, RPF, Romantic Comedy, Sexual Content, The Inherent Eroticism of Economics in BL Literature, Vaginal Fingering, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:34:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27716876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rynleaf/pseuds/rynleaf
Summary: Meatbun’s Big Gay Crisis of March 2019 is kickstarted by the following key events: a Friday nightshift at the convenience store, two packets of sour gummy worms, a bitch ass writer’s block, and the hot dark-academia lady’s lace-edged silk camisole.Dramatis Personae: Meatbun Doesn’t Eat Meat, grad student, danmei author. Hot Tall Dark-Academia Lady, customer. Homicide, shop cat. Two flies. Meatbun’s overdue lab report. Meatbun’s equally overdue novel chapter.
Relationships: Meatbun Doesn't Eat Meat | Ròu Bāo Bù Chī Ròu/Priest
Comments: 13
Kudos: 39





	Meatbun’s Big Gay Crisis of March 2019

**Author's Note:**

  * For [conceptualblindspot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/conceptualblindspot/gifts).



> so you know how sometimes a throwaway joke in someone's DM's at 2 in the morning becomes more than a throwaway joke in someone's DM's at 2 in the morning due to a combination of sleep deprivation, heated literary analysis and thorough discussion of the intricate ways different webnovel authors handle character and worldbuilding in similar genres? and sometimes one will say _"Cursed thought priest/meatbun rpf"_ and the other person replies with _"priest railing meatbun while seductively whispering “there’s no ethical consumption under capitalism” in her ear"_ and then the gas is on and all hell breaks loose?
> 
> Anyway so B and I were talking about sha po lang which spiralled, EXTREMELY, into this likely culturally inaccurate (I tried my best but I am, as it stands, white European), very, very crack-leaning romp in which we made up the personality and background of two popular danmei authors and made them kiss. Names and events, apart from the authors' screen names are made up and workshopped by B and I. 
> 
> B, I love you. Mari, I love you too for holding my hand, putting up with this nonsense and making me take out the bit where Priest goes on the bus in fuzzy slippers. 
> 
> BYE

  
  


Meatbun’s Big Gay Crisis of March 2019 is kickstarted by the following key events: a Friday nightshift at the convenience store, two packets of sour gummy worms, a bitch ass writer’s block, and the hot dark-academia lady’s lace-edged silk camisole. 

Dramatis Personae: Meatbun Doesn’t Eat Meat, grad student, danmei author. Hot Tall Dark-Academia Lady, customer. Homicide, shop cat. Two flies. Meatbun’s overdue lab report. Meatbun’s equally overdue novel chapter.

“That would be, uh,” says Meatbun, fumbling to stuff her phone under her open plausible deniability biochemistry textbook with one hand while adding up the woman’s total on the shitty calculator with the other. Instant hot and spicy shrimp noodles. Instant hot and spicy pork noodles. A porn magazine.

A porn magazine? 

Meatbun looks up--and up---and  _ up--tall, _ what the hell--until her eyes catch on an inch-wide sliver of silky lace showing in the shadow of the open collar of a sensible green canvas shirt patterned with pine trees, and her brain momentarily shorts out. 

“Are you going to take the money?” hot dark-academia lady asks, looking down at Meatbun with a single eyebrow arched. 

“Unghegh?” Meatbun says--eloquent! _Extremely_ eloquent!--and resists the urge to bang her forehead against the counter using excessive force. Barely.

She hands hot dark-academia lady her change. She inhales. She exhales. 

She gestures in the general direction of hot dark-academia lady’s chest and mutters, “Your button, umm. It’s. Umm.” 

“Oh,” says hot dark-academia lady. She slides her environmentally friendly biodegradable or whatever shopping bag up to her elbow, buttons her shirt up to her collarbone and nods at Meatbun. 

Meatbun, poor, miserable Meatbun who’s trying so hard not to have a big gay meltdown it should earn her an award, or at the very least a passing grade in python for biologists, nods back.

”Thanks,” hot dark-academia lady says, and steps out of the door.

Meatbun waits ten whole, agonising seconds before she allows herself to bury her face in her biochem textbook and scream. 

  
  


_ This is fine,  _ she thinks to herself later, staring hard at the chapter she should have completed and uploaded a week and a half ago, open on her phone. The page reads  _ [‘The,’] _ and nothing else. 

“This is fine,” Meatbun says to the empty shop. “It’s not like I was  _ staring  _ at her boobs or anything.”

_ [‘The sun was’] _

She wasn’t, in fact, staring at hot tall dark-academia lady’s boobs, okay? Only because she was distracted by the camisole, but that’s neither here nor there. Besides, the sensible shirt was in the way.  _ Besides _ besides, Meatbun would never openly stare at another woman’s boobs, at her job or anywhere else, not even sleep-deprived at 3AM four days before her biochem exam and five before her readers finally find out her home address and come to her shitty apartment to beat her to death with a chair leg or something for the cliffhanger she had posted before a combination of exam season and writer’s block hit her in the face like a freight train.

_ [‘The’] _

Meatbun hadn’t gotten laid in  _ so long.  _ That’s the only reasonable explanation as to why she’s having so many  _ feelings _ about some stranger’s potentially sexy underwear. 

(It  _ has  _ to be sexy underwear. The woman was drop-dead gorgeous. So few people can pull off the corduroy pencil skirt-blazer combo so well. Nude tights, sensible heels, the shirt with the slipped button and the  _ camisole, _ and the--)

“I need a smoke break,” Meatbun, who had never smoked a single cigarette in her life, groans into the crook of her arm. “Why is life,” she adds, muffled by her double-layer hoodie and the long-sleeve button-down and the band t-shirt she dropped salad sauce on two days ago and failed to notice until today. 

Surely hot dark-academia lady won’t think Meatbun was staring disrespectfully at her boobs, right? Meatbun has the highest respect for every boob in the universe. 

_ [‘A thesis on kissing women, by Meatbun Doesn’t Eat Meat,’] _

No. Hot dark-academia lady probably already forgot Meatbun even existed in the first place, carrying her spicy noodles and her porn somewhere… sophisticated. Or horny _.  _ Or both. 

The clock ticks on to 3:31AM. Meatbun decides to have a hot date with her shower, a deep-moisturising face mask, and the first waterproof vibrator she can find in her room, as soon as possible. 

It’s not like hot dark-academia lady’s going to be back anyway, right?

  
  


Wrong. 

  
  


“Hi,” hot dark-academia lady says a week later. 

Meatbun, who absolutely wasn’t napping on a cardboard box of juice packets she was supposed to be labelling, shudders awake with a wet gasp and drops her glasses on the floor. 

Hot dark-academia lady bends down, picks them up and holds them out for Meatbun to take. 

“Haha, fuck, thanks,” says Meatbun. 

Hot dark-academia lady blinks at her, clears her throat, then asks: “Are you quite all right?” 

“Oh yeah, sure. Certainly. Um. Smashing. Can I help you?” 

“I’d like to pay,” hot dark-academia lady says, lifting the plastic shopping basket in her hand. “You were sleeping.”

“No, I wasn’t!” Meatbun lies, badly. “I’m an exemplary employee. I would  _ never. _ Ma’am. Um.” 

They stare at each other across the box full of mango-papaya flavoured juice packets. Hot dark-academia lady is wearing high-rise, billowing trousers today with a white shirt that is tucked into the waistband and makes her look a little bit like a sexy pirate librarian. 

Meatbun swallows. Hot dark-academia lady clears her throat again. 

“Can I…?”

“Oh. Oh!” 

Meatbun jumps over the cardboard box, loses her balance, catches herself in a shelf of brightly coloured soft drinks, briefly considers the odds of spontaneous human combustion, then yanks the calculator out of the drawer.

“Till’s broken,” she says as she takes hot dark-academia lady’s basket. “For like, six months, really, the manager is kinda stingy, you know? You should see the state of the microwave in the back, I’m pretty sure it’s been there since the nineties… sorry. I’m, uh. Babbling.” 

Meatbun types in the price of two pairs of rubber gloves and a bottle of vegetable oil, then glances up. 

Hot dark-academia lady nods. “Yes.”

“Sorry,” Meatbun says again. 

“It’s fine.” 

Did hot dark-academia lady actually  _ smile _ just then? Meatbun cannot be sure. She cannot be  _ sure,  _ but… 

But. 

The idea of it is a little heady, truth be told. Meatbun imagines the sound of clown shoes, squeaking. 

A packet of four black ballpoint pens. A make-up sponge. 

A porn mag. 

“Another one?” Meatbun’s mouth asks,  _ extremely _ without her permission which is--fuck, okay, unprofessional and kind of bad and also--no? Meatbun looks up at hot dark-academia lady, horrified. 

Hot dark-academia lady’s eyebrow twitches and Meatbun wants to  _ die, _ actually, immediately, right now. 

“It’s not like I’m judging,” she chokes out. “Sex and masturbation are both very healthy! Research shows that self care is--um--I read porn too, just not? This kind? But on the internet? Uh. I’m--I’m not making this any better, am I, how about I just,” Meatbun trains off, gesturing vaguely with the magazine still in her hand, which is. Great. Actually. 

In the ever-shrinking corner of her brain that is  _ not _ currently busy panicking, Meatbun thinks to herself: if this was a scene in a novel, she would leave such a scathing review for the sheer nonsensical impossibility of any such terrible, horrible, no good, very bad plot device, the author would probably have to move to Australia. 

“It’s for research,” says hot dark academia lady quietly, lifting up the magazine and sliding it into her bag beside the bottle of vegetable oil. Her voice is so  _ deep. _

Meatbun is being judged so hard right now, she thinks her grandchildren can probably feel it. 

“I see,” she wheezes. She turns the calculator to show hot dark-academia lady her total, who hands her a bunch of paper bills and clears her throat again. 

“Sorry. I have to catch the last bus.” 

Meatbun scrambles for change. Hot dark-academia lady takes it and stuffs the coins in her purse. She turns around with a flurry of her long canvas jacket and translucent scarf, the tasteful curls of her hairs trailing after her like a xianxia protagonist in a gratuitous slow-mo shot, then pauses just by the exit. 

“Have a good night,” she says over her shoulder, then she’s out of the door, Homicide the shop cat scurrying after her like a streak of mottled grey-brown, furry-assed lightning. 

Gods preserve Meatbun and all of her future offspring, that was  _ definitely  _ a smile, and--worse, worse, so much  _ worse-- _ a  _ dimple. _

  
  


So what if Meatbun Doesn’t Eat Meat, grad student and author of several extremely popular BL webnovels, has a tiny, minuscule thing for dimples? What then? 

What if Meatbun Doesn’t Eat Meat, grad student and poetry connoisseur, is a disaster of a human being with no social skills? 

“I’m going to die for her,” Meatbun says to the empty shop. Then, after a moment’s consideration, she adds: “Or by her hand, one day, to be honest.”

Then, she pulls up her phone and opens a new document. 

  
  


“Are you a student?” Dimpled Devastation asks the following Thursday. 

The name might need some workshopping, Meatbun thinks vaguely as she emerges from behind a pile of papers and her notebook, but calling her hot dark-academia lady all the time is just  _ too much, _ okay? Okay. Her brain is currently experiencing a character limit. 

“Huh?” Meatbun asks, straightens, pushes most of her hair out from in front of her face and adjusts her glasses. 

“Definitely a student,” says tall, well-dressed and handsome. 

Dimples. Meatbun laughs a little and pushes her notebook with the awful drawing of her favourite moron son Mo Ran pictured half-naked further under the pile. 

“Grad school is a nightmare,” The Woman offers. 

“God. Yes. Ugh. I want to sleep for a  _ week _ once this is over, to be honest,” Meatbun gestures at the printouts, tilting precariously toward the edge of the counter. Her Highness reaches over and pulls them back.

Meatbun could kiss her. 

“You must be very tired,” adds the love of her life quietly, and Meatbun nods with so much enthusiasm, her glasses almost suffer a terrible end under the leg of her chair once again.

“The only reason my eyes are open right now is because you’re very hot and I want to look at you forever,” her mouth says before she can stop herself.

Hot dark-academia lady blinks at her.

Meatbun sighs, dejected. 

“How many times do you think I can be extremely unprofessional at a customer before I finally get fired, or smote by lightning where I stand?” she asks, pushing her glasses back onto her nose with something that  _ feels _ like a smile but might actually be a grimace. 

The Hot Woman Meatbun Can Never, Ever See Again, clears her throat. 

“I don’t know. Does it happen often?” 

“Most of my customers are dudes from the university, or drunks,” Meatbun says. “I’m very sleep-deprived, okay, but not  _ that _ sleep deprived. You’re the light of my every Tuesday night. There is no one else. Hell, I think I might be half in love with you already, who knows? I sure don’t.” Meatbun pauses, replays what she just said in her head, then adds: “I think I might be going insane.” 

This theory gains further evidence the next second, when she hears--and it’s impossible, absolutely impossible--an inelegant snort come from behind hot dark-academia lady’s hand.

She is, impossibly, laughing at her.

With teeth. And dimples. Plural. 

Meatbun watches with helpless desperation as a silky strand of long hair slips from her favourite customer’s ponytail and curls around her jaw, her teeth--a little crooked--showing as she smiles. 

_ Dimples?!  _

“You’re funny,” Meatbun’s future wife says. 

“You think I’m funny,” Meatbun repeats faintly. 

Hot dark-academia lady nods, then extends her hand. 

“Yu Caihong,” she says. 

Maybe Meatbun doesn’t have to workshop a nickname, after all. Maybe Meatbun is allowed to explode now, actually. 

“Lin Hui,” she stammers, shaking the hand that was offered.

Yu Caihong laughs again which very nearly sends Meatbun off to a totally different plane of existence altogether, then puts her basket onto the counter a careful distance away from the teetering pile of papers. 

“Once you’re finished with your exams,” she says, “we should go out for coffee.” 

Meatbun will not drop the bottle of wine. 

Meatbun will not drop the bottle of wine. 

Meatbun will  _ not _ drop the bottle of wine. 

Meatbun drops the bottle of wine. 

She has to pay for it out of pocket which is a blow, but hey--she got herself a date! She got herself a  _ date! _

She got herself! A  _ date!!! _

Meatbun goes home, writes twenty-thousand words of hot lesbian sex in a fugue state between the hours of 5 and 6AM, comes three times on the fancy new clitoral massager she got herself online a week ago, and sleeps better than she has in the past year and a half. 

  
  


Except hot dark-academia lady Yu Caihong doesn’t show up at the shop for the next three weeks. 

Meatbun curses herself. She curses Yu Caihong for not giving her her WeChat ID, then curses herself again for not  _ asking _ for it, and is just about ready to fully embrace becoming a depressed void in the corner of the convenience store every Tuesday and Friday between 6PM and 5AM when Yu Caihong actually walks through the door without even a glance in the direction of the counter. 

Meatbun straightens up. She hunkers down. She straightens up again. She follows Yu Caihong’s path through the fuzzy security camera footage as she makes a beeline to the alcohol shelf, packs her basket full of beer, then turns toward the checkout. 

She’s wearing silky pajama pants, fuzzy slippers, a jacket and a pair of gold wire-framed sunglasses. 

Meatbun thinks about standing up for herself, then caves immediately. 

“Holy shit. Man. Dude. Are you okay?” 

Yu Caihong shuffles her feet which makes parts of Meatbun’s world crumble in despair and other parts light up with fond horniness, then places her basket on the counter. 

“I’m depressed,” she announces. “Drink with me.” 

“I’m, uh, on duty?” 

“You’re a convenience store clerk, not the police,” says Yu Caihong, shoves a bunch of bills at Meatbun, then turns to walk out before she could even think about digging out her change. 

“Hey!” she calls after her, but Yu Caihong is already outside, sitting straight-waisted and proper in one of the little red plastic chairs, opening a beer. 

“Motherfucker,” Meatbun mutters. 

She may be in love. It’s fine. Nobody will ever know. 

So this is how, instead of a coffee date featuring Meatbun’s best pair of jeans and,  _ potentially, _ make-up, she finds herself getting drunk on shitty beer with the hottest customer who ever crossed her threshold at 2AM on a Tuesday night. 

This is how, instead of intelligent conversation about poetry, or wine, or whatever, Meatbun listens to Yu Caihong rant about this web novel writer abandoning her deeply infuriating work in progress in favour of modern-era drivel. 

This is how three hours, an early closing and a very long elevator ride later, Meatbun finds herself pressed up against the inside of Yu Caihong’s apartment door, getting the living daylights kissed out of her. 

Which is. You know. Cool. 

“Eat me out,” Yu Caihong demands as she pulls Meatbun toward what is, presumably, the bedroom. “Are you good at eating pussy? God I hope you’re good at eating pussy. You look like someone who’s good at eating pussy. Are you?”

Meatbun isn’t sure she has ever heard Yu Caihong speak so much all at once as she has on this weird, bizarre, amazing night. She’s a little bit dizzy with it, actually. 

“I’m a pussy-eating champion,” she says, following Yu Caihong blindly into a dark room with a double bed and matching bedside tables and a built in closet, holy  _ shit. _ “I have a certificate, somewhere, if you wanna see?”

“I believe in practical demonstrations,” Yu Caihong says. “I always say people should put their mouth where their money is.”

She lies down on the bed fully clothed, pulls off her sunglasses, gives Meatbun a come-hither look straight out of a steamy movie, then--promptly falls asleep. 

Meatbun chews on her thumb.

“Okay. Cool. Cool cool cool.” 

  
  


She half wakes sometime later to the sound of a soft sigh, then the gentle touch of arms circling around her shoulders and under her knees. 

“Why are you sleeping on the sofa?” Yu Caihong asks as she lifts Meatbun up, fancy knit throw and all. 

“Marry me,” Meatbun mumbles into her shoulder before falling back asleep. 

  
  


There are two things Meatbun never really got around to digesting properly, not until she woke up the following morning groggy and a little hangover in a bed that  _ definitely _ wasn’t hers and a cup of coffee on the bedside table.

One: Yu Caihong is a serial web novel reader.

Two: Yu Caihong has  _ boobs.  _

Okay. Record scratch. Meatbun has, of course, been  _ aware _ that Yu Caihong had boobs this whole time, okay? But noting the presence of curves under high-necked shirts and layers is an entirely  _ different _ kind of crisis than the one she is currently experiencing, recalling with vivid intensity the feeling of  _ soft _ and  _ round  _ against her body as she was princess carried from the sofa to the bed in the arms of a hot librarian not six hours ago. 

Big.

_ Squishy.  _

“Holy shit,” Meatbun says to the ceiling. 

“Good morning,” says Yu Caihong from the door. 

Meatbun turns, catches sight of her in a silky, lacy  _ thing _ and a pair of leggings, and swiftly experiences a brain aneurysm. 

“Do you want me to brush my teeth before I ask you to sit on my face, or are you good as is,” she croaks, then watches with desperate helplessness Yu Caihong dimple at her. 

“This wasn’t how it was meant to go,” she says. “I was supposed to take you out. Coffee, dinner, wine,” she counts the agenda points on her fingers, and Meatbun wants nothing more than to lick them. 

“What a shame,” she says. “So you sitting on my face, yes? No?” 

“I made egg rolls and rice,” Yu Caihong says, gesturing out the door. “Let me feed you first, at least. For the sake of my conscience, if nothing else.” 

“You could feed me your pussy,” Meatbun mutters, but rolls obediently out of bed when she catches Yu Caihong’s single raised eyebrow and dunks her face into the coffee with a grateful groan. 

“Meat buns?” Yu Caihong asks, offering her a bamboo basket once Meatbun makes it out to the kitchen, and she waves her hand no.

“No, thank you,” she says, then--because she is a troll, really, and can never resist, she adds: “this meatbun doesn’t eat meat.” 

Caihong straightens, eyes wide and bright. “Lin Hui knows meatbun’s novels?” 

Meatbun chokes on nothing. 

“I have never read anything on that godforsaken website that made me want to grab someone by the throat and _ squeeze _ more,” Caihong continues, her cheeks a little pink. “The poetry! The  _ puns! _ The character-work! Somebody should find out where she lives so I can have a long, hard discussion with her about class in cultivation novels, believe me, I have words to say.”

“I see,” Meatbun says weakly. 

“Have you read the enemies-to-lovers-to-enemies one yet?” Caihong asks. 

Meatbun clears her throat. “Um. You could say that.” 

Caihong groans and buries her face in her hands. “I’m not sure whether I want to strangle her or eat her brain more,” she says. “You know what I mean?” 

“Yep, totally,” Meatbun says, absolutely not panicking. 

“I want to talk to her about worldbuilding,” Caihong groans miserably. “I want to talk to her about culpability and the misalignment of filial piety, and  _ economics.” _

“I have thoughts on the misalignment of filial piety,” Meatbun mutters, swallowing a visceral reaction to the looming threat of her embarrassingly long reading list which she is ignoring in favour of rereading that one novel with the steampunk body armors and the main character’s ginormous daddy kink for the seventh time. “I have many thoughts about the misalignment of filial piety, actually.” 

Caihong looks up. 

“You know,” she says, and despite, well-- _ everything, _ Meatbun cannot help feeling helplessly fond at how undignified she looks right this moment, in her sleep clothes with a crumb of egg stuck to her cheek, slagging off--or complimenting? It’s kind of hard to tell--Meatbun’s own work on her face. 

Meatbun considers the advantages and disadvantages of subtle misdirection.

She also really, really wants to discuss culpability in BL literary fiction with Yu Caihong while, say, getting her pussy fingered. 

“I’m meatbun,” she says to Caihiong’s enormous eyes and the single strand of silver hair she can  _ just _ see catching the light that pours from the window. 

There is a pause. Then Yu Caihong straightens, eyes narrowed in intense and chilling focus, and says: “Prove it.” 

Meatbun fumbles her phone out of her pocket, brings up her author’s profile and holds it up for Caihong to see. 

The shift that transforms Yu Caihong from pretty, elegant and sleep-rumpled to devastating and terrifying is, frankly, spectacular. 

“I can _ not _ believe it,” Caihong says slowly, the syllables dragging into infinity, while Meatbun is experiencing the single scariest horny moment of her life. 

“So,” she says hoarsely, “economics, huh?” 

Caihong sifts back to lean on her arms, looks Meatbun in the eye without blinking, and says: 

“If you want to say no, you can. If you don’t, well.”

She tilts her torso back and opens her legs. 

“Oh thank god,” mutters Meatbun, and dives over the table to pull Caihong’s leggings down, her camisole up, and bury her face in her boobs like she wanted to since the day hot dark-academia lady first walked through the door. 

Caihong takes her by the hair and pulls her off, not ungently, kisses Meatbun on the mouth, then pushes her  _ down.  _

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Meatbun chokes out against Caihong’s thigh. She drags her mouth up soft skin until she reaches the edge of her panties--pink, lace border, silky--and licks her through the material as is, nose brushing Caihong’s clit as she goes. 

“Oh. Oh god. Hurry up,” Caihong’s deep, thready voice comes from above. Meatbun hums and licks her again, teases her index finger along the lace edge, just enough to catch some of Caihong’s wetness. Her hands are shaking. 

“Do you like fingers?” she asks breathlessly. She looks up to see Caihong shake her head. 

“Mouth. Hard. Please.” 

“Okay. Okay. Okay, jiejie--can I call you jiejie? Fuck, you’re so hot, let me--”

“Call me whatever you want,” Caihong says, “as long as you hurry  _ up.” _

Meatbun is intensely gratified to hear her voice break and trail off into a moan as Meatbun pulls her panties to the side and puts her entire face on her pussy. 

Caihong doesn’t let go of her hair the whole time. She clutches Meatbun’s scruffy ponytail, breathes heavily into the quiet that’s broken only by the sloppy noises Meatbun makes, holds on and holds on and pulls a little as her thighs begin to shake and her breathing gets faster and her cunt clutches around the pad of Meatbun’s finger as she rubs her entrance gently while her mouth is busy elsewhere. 

Caihong comes for the first time like that, on the floor in her living room opening to the small kitchenette with swirls of egg and onions cooling on the table. 

Meatbun barely has time to catch her breath before she is hauled bodily up from the floor and kissed, messily, into a small, whirling oblivion. 

“Touch me,” she pants into Caihong’s mouth, “please, jiejie, I’m  _ dying.”  _

“Okay. Okay. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe  _ you.”  _ Caihong puts her hand down Meatbun’s sweatpants and rubs through her underwear. “Of  _ course _ it is you. I don’t even know why I’m surprised,” she continues, uncaring of Meatbun squirming for more, or her high pitched whining, or the clench of her arms around Caihong’s shoulders. She slips a finger under Meatbun’s panties and draws it up her seam unbearably softly, and says, “How can your brain simultaneously be so big and so, so fucking small?”

“Buh,” Meatbun says. Caihong rubs her clit with her finger. 

“Look at me,” she says. Meatbun drags her sticky face off her shoulder. 

“Jiejie, please,” she breathes, but Caihong shakes her head. 

Meatbun shuts up. 

She never thought shutting up could be sexy, actually. 

“For fuck’s sake, Meatbun,” Caihong says. The shape her mouth makes around the curse almost sends Meatbun off the deep end of her sanity. “There is no ethical consumption under capitalism.” 

Meatbun groans and grinds down against Caihong’s finger. 

“I know, jiejie, I know, now can you please put it in me? Please? One is enough, or two if you’re feeling  _ extra  _ generous, god. Please. I’ll be good.” 

“You abandoned your latest novel,” says Caihong, relentless. Meatbun cries a little. 

“I’ll finish it, I promise. You can tell me about economics. We can talk about filial piety. Please, jiejie--”

Caihong kisses her, rubs her clit one last time, then finally,  _ finally _ slides two fingers inside her. 

“God, fuck, I--jiejie--”

“You talk so much,” Caihong says, not ungently. She kisses Meatbun again and curls her fingers until she finds the angle that makes Meatbun suck in a hoarse breath, then--then--

“Can you come like this?”

Meatbun makes an unintelligible gurgling sound. Caihong nuzzles her cheek. 

“Okay. Okay. I have you.” 

Meatbun holds on to her shoulder for dear life. Caihong fucks her with her fingers and rests her thumb against Meatbun’s clit enough for a gentle counterpoint of pleasure.

Meatbun presses against her, puts her hands on her boobs, and gets momentarily lost in… everything. 

“Are you okay?” Caihong asks her softly, a little later. 

How much time passed? Ten minutes? Twenty? 

“Uh huh,” Meatbun says, then adds, “I think I lost the plot, just a little.” 

“Don’t get me started,” Caihong snorts. 

Meatbun pinches her arm. “Shut up.”

There is a comfortable pause, during which Meatbun finally, finally indulges herself and buries her face between Caihong’s boobs to breathe. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” Caihong asks slowly, dreamily, after a few minutes pass and Meatbun is almost asleep in the cradle of all that nice-smelling skin and the hand petting her hair.

She sniffs and peels herself off Caihong. “Hm?”

“I actually also write danmei,” she says, cool and entirely unapologetic.

Meatbun perks up.

“Oh? Really?”

Caihong nods. “I like steampunk and politics. I have a novel, actually, it got pretty popular for a while--Lin Hui? Are you okay?”

Meatbun stares up at her from the floor, ass sore where she bumped into the table as she fell and face still sticky from Caihong’s pussy, her entire world upside down and sideways and in all sorts of disarray, and says:

“I think I’m going to pass out for real, now.” 

  
  


Caihong is, all things considered, really cool about the nosebleed thing. And the shrieking. And Meatbun begging her to sit on her face, finally. And her demands to see her latest draft. 

“I still want to take you out for coffee,” she says an hour later, lying naked on the bed with Meatbun’s face once again nestled between her boobs. Meatbun emerges with a deep inhale. 

“Really?” she asks, hopeful.

Caihong smiles. 

“We never ended up having that talk about committing to your commentary on class, did we?” 

**Author's Note:**

> if you made it to the end PLEASE tell me I need to know
> 
> This fic has been converted for free using [AOYeet](https://aoyeet.space)


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